Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Elnora
recently lost a great son with the death of former resident, Carrol
Vertrees.His writings were loved by
many, and he served as the inspiration for my futile attempts at trying to
emulate his success and style.

I
learned of his passing a few days ago as I was getting my daily “Facebook fix”
on-line.I scrolled down the page and read
the shocking headline: “Post-Tribune columnist Carrol Vertrees dead at
92.”His lengthy obituary spoke of his career
as a journalist for newspapers in northern Indiana as well as the Odon Journal.He remained active to the end, having a new
column published in the Journal just
two days after he died.My initial
reaction was one of shock, but when I started thinking about the overall tone
of the last several of his “Vertrees Comments,” I feel that he may have had a
premonition he would soon be moving from his earthly home to his celestial one.

In
1976, author Alex Haley published Roots:
The Saga of an American Family, a novel based on his family’s history.It became a best seller and one of the most
watched TV miniseries of all time.I speculate
that Carrol Vertrees (CV, as he signed his e-mails to me) began sculpting stories
of his Elnora roots long before Haley’s book.

Carrol
Vertrees was 23 years my senior, but we had at least two things in common; we
both loved our little home town, and we both moved away at an early age.History has shown that as many Elnora
residents reach young adult status, they scatter hither and yon like brown,
brittle leaves on a windy autumn day.CV
and I were alike in that regard.

In
fact, I should mention that although he knew of me as a small child, I never
met Carrol Vertrees face-to-face during my adult life.I became familiar with him through his
newspaper columns and later through the magic of e-mail and Facebook.He knew my family and has shared memories of
my father, Emerson, and my mother, Elizabeth (he called her “Libby”), and
remembered that the Johnson clan attended Mud Pike Church along with the
Vertrees family all those years ago.He
also extolled the culinary virtues of the food at my parents’ restaurant and raved
about my mom’s excellent chili.He
mentioned her recently in a Facebook entry after I had posted some pictures of
her for Mothers’ Day.

When
the now-defunct Elnora Post began its
operation in 2008, I decided to try my hand at submitting some of my own Elnora
memories and hoped I could become half the writer CV was.I have had fun trying, but I truly think what
I consider my best work can’t hold the proverbial candle to anything I ever
read of his.Most of my stories recount
specific vignettes of my life growing up in our little hometown.CV could write about anything, but before you
knew it, he’d sneak in that little Elnora reference.He was a master at that.

I
have saved all of my stories that have been printed in the Post and now in the Journal. I’ve
also kept several of CV’s.One of my
favorites was his recollection of how Elnora celebrated Christmas during his
younger days.It was a true
masterpiece.One year ago this week in
the June 19, 2013 edition of the Odon
Journal, he wrote a letter to the “From Our Mailbag” column titled
“Remembering Elnora.”In it, he compared
our memories of that little piece of Daviess County Heaven that we call home.He explained that we come from different
generations and that our memories are linked to three different towns, his
Elnora, my Elnora, and the modern Elnora, a shell of its former self, but still
a treasure of memories.

I’d
like to quote a portion of that letter: “I salute folks like Jim Johnson who
knew painful adversity from an early age and felt the love of people who
cared.Like me, he feels that memories,
even painful ones, help us understand who we are and where we have been.Little towns like Elnora that are only shells
of their former vibrant lives still seem real -- a permanent part of us. Jim Johnson has reminded us of that important
truth.”

On
the contrary, I feel Carrol Vertrees reminded us of that better than I ever
could have.One of those painful
memories is now knowing that his wit, insight, and eloquence have been silenced
forever.CV, I salute you and hope that
one day we can sit down on the “other side” and swap a few stories.Till then, I will miss you.

Originally Written 11/23/2013I
tried to pen these thoughts a week ago, but the words just wouldn’t come.

It’s
often been said that “bad things come in threes.”The year, 1963, may not have proven that
theory, but for me it came awfully close.On February 13, 1963, one day before the celebration of St. Valentine,
my father died from a long bout with lung cancer.Three months later, death claimed my faithful
dog, Willie.

During
that summer, I worked at the Crane Naval Ammunition Depot as it was known in
those days.Many weeks I’d put in sixty
hours or more so that I would have enough money to return to Purdue in the fall
and help ease the financial burden on my widowed mother.I had a scholarship that paid for my tuition
and books, but we still had to pony up for room, board, and “spending money.”So, with a heavy heart I returned to
Boilermaker country in September, leaving Mother home with her new dachshund,
Greta.

Friday,
November 22, 1963, dawned pretty much like any other day.I worked part-time in the dorm cafeteria.That morning I was in the serving line dipping
up the scrambled eggs, bacon, and other breakfast foods before heading to campus.Unlike most colleges, Purdue started classes
on the “half-hour” rather than at the top of the hour.And, in 1963, Purdue was on Central Standard
Time, the same as Dallas, Texas.

I
had a 1:30 economics class at Stanley Coulter Hall and always drove to class
early to seek one of the elusive open parking spaces.That afternoon I got lucky and found one
right away.I was listening to music in
my old ‘56 Dodge when a DJ interrupted, saying that President Kennedy had been
shot and we should stay tuned for further details.Not realizing how serious this truly was, I turned
off the radio and entered the building.After ascending the monstrous Stanley Coulter main staircase, I saw a
note on the classroom door stating that all Friday and Saturday classes at
Purdue had been cancelled.Only then did
I know the worst, bad things do come
in threes.

The
next day, Saturday, was sunny, warm, and beautiful.The annual Purdue/IU Old Oaken Bucket football
game was scheduled in Bloomington, but like nearly every game throughout the
land, it was postponed a week until the Saturday after Thanksgiving.I had planned to drive to Elnora, pick up my
mom, and take her to her first college football game, but we would now have to
wait a week for a cold, snowy day to see Purdue recapture the Bucket.

But,
on the “Kennedy” weekend, I worked in the cafeteria, did my own “gig” as a DJ
on the Purdue Residence Network, studied very little, and watched the constant
news evolving on TV.On Sunday, 15-20 of us sat in the basement TV
room and lost even more innocence as we witnessed the assassination of Lee
Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby live in black and white.

I
was just 19 years old and had already learned the life lessons of impermanence.By then I had been afflicted by polio, had
lost my grandparents, my father, my dog, and now the nation had lost its
President.Healing takes time and comes
in different forms for different people.The recent TV specials about “that day in Dallas” brought back so many
memories, and I realize I’m still grieved by those events of over fifty years
ago.